


Legend

by LuminiaAravis



Category: Legend of Grimrock
Genre: Gen, Major Original Character(s), Original Character-centric, Team as Family, world building
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-14
Updated: 2017-08-14
Packaged: 2018-12-15 04:34:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,523
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11798505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LuminiaAravis/pseuds/LuminiaAravis
Summary: The world is on the brink of a revolution, and they can only keep it buried for so long.Legend of Grimrock with some backstory, political turmoil, world building, history, etc. I'm not through the game yet, but I have some bomb OC's I think you'll like.





	1. PROLOGUE. What Xylo Did

One of the benefits of being an insect-person was the natural lightness of body and swiftness of step. Xylo could feel the blood running through his veins as he ran with a spring down the alleys that led away from the High Street. He darted away from the gently opulent houses, away from the Tall Tower, its spires reaching towards the heavens, Red banners flying, watching him.

Xylo reached a tiny wooden door in the side of a brick building and knocked exactly twice. The door opened an infinitesimal amount, and Xylo leaned in and whispered, “It’s me, the Viridescent Imago,” and the party inside let Xylo enter.

It was a small underground room with barley room to stand. The place was full of warm light, cheap tallow candles burning on tables and in clay saucers. Various maps, diagrams, lists and letters were pinned up all over the walls.

“So, what happened?” asked a second insect-man. “Is he dead?”

Xylo shook his head and sank into a chair. “Yes, I’ve done it,” he replied. “I can’t believe you put me up to this. But the fat Loyalist shit is dead.”

“That’s great news!” cried a third conspirator, a young human girl. “Why’re you upset, Xy? This is a huge victory for us. He was one of the King’s right-hand men, and –”

“I know,” Xylo snapped. “I know he needed to go. He was brutal to the Contrary. But that’s not the problem,” he continued, burying his face in his hands. “The knife.”

“Hold up – where is it?” asked the girl. “Xylo, did you lose it?”

“No – but, but I don’t have it with me.”

“Gods above and below, how can someone with your brains be so stupid!”

“I pushed it onto someone else!” Xylo shouted. “There was a man in the street outside, just standing there. The Royal Guard was coming. I panicked, I gave the guy the knife. Then I ran. I ran like the coward I am.”

“Xy, you’re not a murderer, not really, not deep down,” the second insect-man said sympathetically.

“I am now,” Xylo retorted. “And I framed an innocent man – how am I any better than the sorry sack of lard I just killed? How does this help end the Royal reign of terror?”

“He was a monster, you know that,” the young girl said. “He convicted people just for being Contrary. Even if they hadn’t _done_ anything. You gave us all a second chance at bringing down the Loyalists and the Crown.”

“The price was too high this time,” Xylo replied. “And I’m an _engineer_ , this isn’t my –”

What it wasn’t, Xylo didn’t get the chance to say. Royal Guards broke down the door. All three of the conspirators jumped up, and surrendered immediately. They were all arrested and hand-cuffed on the spot.

The ranking officer, a captain, ducked his head so he didn’t hit the lintel on his way in. A woman with flaming red hair and freckles followed. “A little nest of the Contrary, and look, their plans are laid out all around them. This should get me promoted,” the captain mused. “Dead drops, code names – listen to these. There’s an operative out in the country called the Eastern Goddess. Where do they come up with these names?”

“Self-serving Loyalist pig,” the young girl spat.

The guards paid her no mind. The captain was busy examining the documents on the wall. All of the Contrary code words, meeting places, contacts – and the final designs for Xylo’s invention.

A guard ripped Xylo’s cloak off and patted him down for weapons. “Who drew these?” the captain asked, pulling Xylo’s work from the wall. The three conspirators traded quick glances and none of them spoke.

“Damn you bugs,” another guard cussed under his breath. “Can never tell which way you’re looking.” He pulled the young Contrary girl’s hair. “ _She_ has to understand, at least.”

“Me,” Xylo blurted. “Me, I drew them, I’m an engineer, an inventor.”

The second insect-man hissed at Xylo. “No cooperation. Whatever they want you to do, do the opposite. Be _Contrary_.”

The captain ignored him too, instead addressing Xylo directly this time. “What’re you Contrary scum building?” he asked evenly.

When Xylo didn’t answer, a knife was placed at the girl’s exposed throat. “A wall-breaking device,” Xylo said. “It’s a machine designed to carve holes in brick and stone. It’s small and portable and quiet. And cheap and easy to build –” Xylo’s comrades looked devastated. “I told him too much, didn’t I?”


	2. PROLOGUE. What Jahi Did

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the following chapter, I've included intentionally scrambled blocks of text in italics. These are meant to represent the way that Jahi hears the language of the kingdom where the story takes place. He can understand bits and pieces - and you might be able to also - but most of it is complete nonsense.

A tall, lean gentleman in sweeping red robes was taking a stroll through the Royal City. He knew that it wasn’t the best thing for a foreigner to prowl around in the dark. Especially in an affluent neighborhood. Where the lamp oil was pure, and they were lit without fail. Where weeds were not allowed between the cobbles and rubbish was taken away on the spot. Where the Tall Tower was visible from every street, every house, every window.

Jahi was a gentleman in his own land. That he understood, that he knew, and that he believed from his shaven head to his sandaled feet. So he had no difficulty staying calm, pacing down the High Street – normally bustling, now quiet – with a gentle dignity and the divine patience befitting a High Wizard of the Mahara. Slowly. Deliberately. As his people were wont to do.

Jahi also knew he was thousands of miles away from the Mahara. He had only coin from his native land in his purse. And only his own native language on his tongue.

Suddenly the blanketed silence was broken by an unwelcome commotion. Jahi turned around to look for the source of the crash and panicked shout, and a few paces down the High Street, a small man stumbled out of one of the affluent houses.

Jahi got a good look at the man thanks to the bright city lamplight. He was about four feet high, without measuring the upright antennae on his head. He was wearing loose black pants and a hood, and the chitinous plates covering his body were shimmering shades of grass- and moss-green.

The insect-man glanced around frantically, and saw the High Street empty except for Jahi standing there, alone. He ran to Jahi and pressed something cold and hard into his hands.

“ _Ism rory_ ,” he said breathlessly, his wide, black eyes all but boring into Jahi’s soul. “ _Ism rory. Tish wsnat manet fro ouy. Ism o rosry_.”

Naturally Jahi didn’t understand the insect-man’s words. They weren’t in his language, but it was a plea, unmistakably sincere, doleful, and urgent.

The man ran off into the night, down an alleyway, into the dark.

He had handed Jahi a bloody knife. And Jahi was given no time to gather his wits before the Royal Guard came, twelve of them jogging down the High Street, and took the knife away and placed him in irons.

Nobody understood the foreign mage, nobody was willing to try. Jahi didn’t rattle the bars of his cell, he didn’t throw his food or scream or abuse the guards. It was against his principles.

“ _Hse dloice bcesaue eh kwnos esh domeod. Eh kwnos wtahs gnoig ot hpaepn ntex. Lkoo ta mhi. Eh dnesot fele nay rmsoree, nto a tib. Dtusgisng. Fknucig amnail._ ”

The prison guards looked at Jahi like he was diseased. It was only natural, they thought he was an unrepentant murderer. Jani planned to asked for a translator on his day in court. And if there was one, he planned to draw a picture of the insect-man who had framed him.

Thankfully Jahi was brought before a magistrate before too long. The courtroom was packed, it looked like he was one in a long string of public appeals that day. He was lead to a small wooden dais facing the magistrate, hands bound again, as another criminal was led out.

The magistrate addressed him bluntly, his eyes lowered and bleary with disinterest. “ _Wno gianehr the seca of hte eofinrg magsu, pilmictaed owithut a doubt ni eth urmred of eht Alyol Maisgrtate_ Joraster _, utb htere adys pvrieous. Eevdeicn eginb hte murerd wenpoa saw oupn ihs repson nad he wsa ta teh cesen fo teh ricme at hte mtie ti swa ocmtimetd; hatw asy uyo in uryo eedesnf, ris?_ ”

“My name is Jahi, and I am a High Wizard of the Mahara. I believe I have the right to a lawyer and a translator.”

The magistrate traded a significant look with the bailiff, a young red-haired woman dressed in Royal Reds. Though the bailiff smirked in response to the judge’s glance, her face softened when his eyes were no longer on her. She had the appearance of someone whose heart was steadfast, but ears were open.

“I get the impression that you haven’t the interest or time to find legal representation for me,” Jahi continued, “but I must at least speak my peace in a sacred, if foreign, place of law. If your Gods cannot hear me, then perhaps mine can.”

The magistrate was scribbling away behind the bench, effectively rendering Jahi mute for all legal purposes. But the bailiff was still listening, squinting her eyes as if it would help her understand. So Jahi continued.

“I have murdered no-one. I have committed no crimes. I was framed, blamed and punished for the offence of another. The knife was forced into my unsuspecting hands as the true murderer fled.”

He still had the bailiff’s attention, so he kept talking. “Gods above and below, I see disdain and indifference in all of your eyes. But I must accept my fate now, because I understand that this was not meant for me. Just as the incriminating blade was never meant for my hands.”

“ _Oneugh fo thsi bdarble, eth ieenvedc gaantis uoy si nmgvhlewiero nad omceplnlig. Ohwvere sicne erhte si a hgslit cchaen thta uoy're inceontn, I wlli eguonerysl lalow ouy ot eb exilde ta_ Mount Grimrock _. Ecsa olsced. Xnte!_ ” The magistrate waved his hand, and another officer grabbed Jahi’s arm and led him out of the courtroom.

Just before they left, Jahi caught sight of the bailiff turn to the magistrate and speak to him. The magistrate rebuked her and dismissed her, too. Perhaps it was a sign of hope.


	3. PROLOGUE. What Hathora Did

Night raids were always just a little bit fun. Branwen’s CO told her, as she was coming up through the ranks, the excitement would wear thin someday. But it never had. The night air was bracing, the torches inspiring as banners against the stars. Hoof beats kept up a deadly taboo through the quiet.

Tax evasion and possible Contrary ties. Open and closed. Classic.

Branwen knew the raids worked because she had never visited the same house twice.

It was a small place down a narrow dirt highway out in the country. A one-story house, probably one room, dwarfed by the adjacent barn and mill. Branwen’s unit of the Royal Guard cantered up on horseback, bright and blazing torches raised high.

Branwen’s captain dismounted and approached the front door. Shadowy figures moved around inside the cabin, visible against the small, thick window-panes. He rapped loudly at the door, carved lovingly of warped wood, worn smooth around the handle through time.

A Minotaur woman answered, her form and demeanor recalling none of the docile grace of her domestic bovine cousins. Branwen hadn’t known that a cow’s eyes could flash so hotly, torchlight reflected in perfect black.

“Are you the Eastern Goddess?” the captain asked her. Words were crossed, and the creature refused to answer questions or leave her house with the guardsmen. She roared and snorted, stamped her hooved feet, each as big as Branwen’s head, and shoved the Captain bodily aside.

Needless to say the seven-foot-high Minotauress was able to lift bodily and throw each of the ten guardsmen in turn. “I fertilize my fields with the blood and bones of Loyalists like you!” she screamed. “I keep the ragged old Reds in the privy for ass-wipes!” Soon, the guardsmen managed to lasso her around the neck and horns, and to drag her to the ground and clasp specially-crafted manacles around her huge wrists.

Branwen was charged with holding the end of the rope leash as the guardsmen calmed and remounted their horses. Surveying the farmhouse again, Branwen spied two small Minotaur children, must have been, silhouetted in the cheap window glass.

“What of the young ones, sir?” Branwen asked her captain.

“Their instincts will guide them,” he said carelessly, extending a hand towards one of his lieutenants. The captain was handed a lit torch. “They’re young, they’ll find a nice pasture somewhere and settle down. Better they find their own way now than listen to their mother’s Contrary lies any longer.”

The captain threw the torch through the tiny window, shattering it, causing the shadows within to disperse, and two lowing cries arose as the dried wood and thatch caught fire.

The Minotaur woman bellowed in agony as she beheld her home burn with her children inside. “Run, Io, run, take your brother to the pond!”

Branwen looked to her captain for orders, reassurance, and found none. His face was stoic and emotions well-hidden. She could feel the heat coming from the bonfire, like standing next to the sun. “The door’s stuck, mama!”

“Break it down!” their mother shouted, turning to the captain. “Gods above and below, even you Loyalists must have a sense of compassion,” she plead.

Turning again to her captain for a signal, a hint, anything, and receiving nothing a second time, Branwen jumped down from her charger as quickly as she could, and heel-kicked the door with all her might. It crashed open, and the two Minotaur calves inside darted out and into the night, away over the fields, perhaps to the pond as their mother had instructed.

Branwen caught the Minotaur woman’s eyes, expecting some sort of relief or gratitude. Instead she saw the same fury as before, now a fanned flame, as her home and family were torn apart.

The captain rode up behind Branwen, wrapped his fingers around the nape of her neck and squeezed. “You shouldn’t have done that,” he murmured. “Shouldn’t have done that.”


	4. PROLOGUE. What Branwen Did

Branwen had grown up in the Royal City, she had spent her infancy in the shadows of the Tall Tower, her childhood admiring the guards in their fine Red uniforms, all equipped with glittering swords and shining helmets. She waved and smiled at them as they did their patrols. They smiled and waved back.

They were good people, and their job was to protect other good people like her. To catch and take away all the bad ones. The stealers and killers, the liars and cheaters, the angry and the mean and the cruel. Until all that was left would be clean.

It was what the Red Emperor wanted. It wasn’t too much to ask everyone to be good. It wasn’t hard not to steal and kill and fight. Almost everyone could do it. It was the great problem of society that the good people had to suffer because of the bad. It made Branwen upset when she witnessed theft and dishonesty and violence.

So when she was of age, she joined the Royal Guard.

She was young, she was one of the few women on the force, she was eager and vivacious. Branwen completed her training and then spent her days protecting the market, the High Street, the temple stairs, the palace gates. She was kind, courteous, and vigilant always. She thwarted pickpockets, arrested muggers and brawlers, chased after and calmed runaway horses, helped repair broken cartwheels, and rescued cats and ludo balls from trees.

She donned the Red. She wore the sword.

Her division had been the busiest since she could remember. A high-ranking senior magistrate had been assassinated in his house on the High Street, and multiple individuals from the Contrary cell responsible had been arrested, tried, and convicted. They’d also caught a Contrary sympathizer, who had been at least an accessory to the crime, and to top it off, now they had a vengeful brooding Minotauress to keep secure.

Needless to say Branwen was hoping for good news when her Captain called her to his desk after her shift ended. They sat on opposite sides of his desk in his office at the station building. Branwen could hear the night shift gathering in the courtyard outside. The captain and his tiny office were bathed in gentle candle-light.

“Tell me about the last few days,” the captain began.

Branwen blinked. “In regards to what?” she asked. “You were there all the time, sir. What’s going on?”

“You tell _me_ ,” he replied. “At the trial, you embarrassed yourself and, by extension, this unit, by interrupting the sitting magistrate. And that raid on the Minotaur farm, you thought it would be alright if you took the law into your own hands. Deliver a little vigilante justice.”

“That’s not how it happened,” Branwen insisted. “I only suggested to the magistrate that he get that poor foreign man an interpreter, so we could hear his testimony before sentence was passed. Isn’t that his right?”

“He was Contrary,” the captain answered. “Anyone who opposes the Red Emperor forfeits his rights. That assassin was lucky we even let him into the courthouse.”

“I’m not sure that’s true,” Branwen continued, looking her mentor dead in the eyes. “Don’t our rights come from the Gods? And aren’t the Gods impartial, sir?”

“The Emperor is the embodiment of the Gods. His law is their will made manifest.”

Branwen kept pushing. “But isn’t the Emperor a man? And aren’t all men fallible?”

“All but the Emperor,” the captain frowned. “This is basic theology, Branwen. Really, I’m disappointed in you,” he sighed, and rose heavily from his chair as Branwen’s heart sank into her shoes. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you for your Reds and your sword.”

The room was silent for a few moments too long. The Branwen snorted, a rush of giddiness erupting inside her like a geyser. “Good one, sir. Is this to celebrate my one-year on the force? How many of the boys are in on it?” The captain’s face didn’t betray any levity. “It’s alright sir, I understand,” Branwen continued. “They like their practical jokes, don’t they? I handled the hazing during initiation, I think I’ll be alright.”

Branwen got up from her chair and smiled warmly at her commanding officer and mentor. “I know we’ve had a tough week, sir, but there’s nothing we can’t handle. You look worried – maybe you should go home, have a drink and get some sleep. Hell, I’ll even walk you home and have a cuppa myself, say hello to the missus.”

As she turned and reached for the doorknob, the captain spoke very loudly and sternly. “You can take off your Red surcoat now, but keep the rest of your armor, and leave it and your sword with me; or I can get someone in here to tear your Reds off you and you can go home naked. Your choice. Either way you’re not leaving with your uniform, Bran.”

Branwen froze, stunned again at what she was hearing. “Me – why do you want my Reds? You’re having me on, aren’t you?”

The door of the tiny office opened, and two guardsmen from the night shift entered. They were fully dressed and armed, and stood at attention, keeping Branwen from the door. “You’re having me on,” she repeated, taking an involuntary step backwards.

“You’ve started thinking like one of them,” the captain explained. “Sympathy for convicts, questioning the structure of the heavens and divine influence on the Emperor, these are fundamental traits of a Contrary individual. We can’t have any of that here, Bran. The captain shook his head. “Where did the Contrary thoughts start?”

“It’s just that – well, this week everything’s been so – I’m not having contrary thoughts!” Branwen shouted. “I’m Loyal! Really, I am! I didn’t realize that justice, that – that taking interest in citizens’ rights was Contrary, sir!”

“I just don’t understand,” the captain continued. “You scored high marks in training, they said you were the best woman guard in a generation.”

“Well what’s happened this week, sir – to be honest, it’s nothing like training. Not in the least. They teach you to _maintain_ order and justice wherever you go, which is doable if there’s already some form of justice around to _be_ maintained. They never teach you what to do if you find yourself in a place where there _isn’t_ any justice to begin with. So I – I decided I should try and make my own.”

“No justice in the Red Emperor’s courts, is there?” the captain asked.

“We all have a spark of the Gods in us, sir,” Branwen said. “I _do_ understand our theology. The Emperor might speak for the Gods, but they’re in me, too, sir. I know when I see something that would sadden them, I _know_ I can tell the difference between good and evil. It’s why I joined the Guard in the first place.”

“Then I think – I do think it’s time,” the captain sighed, and he motioned to the two guardsmen at the door. Each of them put a hand on Branwen’s shoulders, holding her still before the captain’s desk. “From this point on, Branwen, you are at the mercy of Mount Grimrock, and you no longer exist.”


	5. INTO THE DARKNESS 1

The first thing Branwen experienced as she regained consciousness was a murderous headache. She opened her eyes and kneaded her forehead with her knuckles, trying to alleviate the tension. It was almost pitch-dark. The only source of illumination was the shaft in the ceiling above, the pit that led to the outside world. That Branwen was now at the bottom of.

She was completely nude, flat on her back on a cold, damp, filthy flagstone floor. She moved to stand up and was reminded that she was chained by the ankle to three others. She could see the shapes of her fellow convicts, the largest of whom had already regained consciousness, and seated hunched over on the floor.

“Good, you’re awake,” the Minotauress said. Her voice was deep, smooth, and crisp, like still water on a starless night. Like everyone on the chain, her clothes and personal belongings had been taken from her, even the ornamental septum ring that Minotaurs usually wore. Her build was muscular, even for her race, and she had two horns upon her head, a foot long each, delicate arabesques of bone, deadly sharp.

The Minotaur continued. “One less body to haul around, then. Do you think we should wait for the other two to come round, or should we just carry them?”

“Excuse me?” Branwen asked, nonplussed. “I mean – they’re alive, aren’t they?” she asked, crouching down to check the other two prisoners. One was a bald man with tattoos and skin the color of henna, and the other was a small insect-man. The human was alive, but Branwen wasn’t sure about the insect-man.

“So?” the Minotaur pressed. “The bug is lighter than the wizard, and I’m stronger than you. So you can drag the grasshopper and I’ll take the cocoa puff.”

“I think we should wait,” Branwen suggested. “We don’t know what’s down there – maybe they can help us. Maybe they can fight, or maybe one of them’s clever with maps and puzzles.”

“Perhaps,” the Minotaur said, picking idly at the stone on the floor. “But we cannot afford to wait much longer.”

“Why not?” Branwen asked. “What’s the hurry? I mean – you want to get to the bottom of the mountain, too, don’t you?” the Minotaur nodded. “Then I think we should take our time and strategize since we only have one shot at it.”

“The hurry is we have no food or water,” the Minotaur added. “Strategy is fine, but food is better. Look around. There’s nothing in this room that can help us. If we’re going to get started, we need to start _now_.”

The insect-man groaned, and rolled over onto his back. His chitinous joints creaked as he moved, and his antennae flicked through the air, seemingly of their own accord, searching for stimuli. “You alright?” the Minotaur asked.

“I think so,” the insect-man answered. “How far did we fall?”

“Thirty feet?” the Minotaur replied. “Miracle none of us broke or sprained or fractured anything, really.”

The insect-man scanned the room, and let his gaze rest on the last member of their party. “Gods above and below,” he breathed. “This can’t be happening, this can’t be happening.”

In another moment, the wizard regained consciousness, too, and sat up, rolling his shoulders and rubbing his eyes.

“You hurt?” Branwen asked.

“ _I odn't elevbei I ma. Ti sesme sa houthg teh Ogsd hvae arcidre su tish rfa, ta eastl_ ,” said the wizard.

“So he speaks Maharan,” the insect-man said. “ _Ym anme si_ Xylo _, od uyo askpe teh gulaaneg fo isht adln_?”

The wizard shook his head. “Jahi,” he said, pointing to himself. “Jahi. _Upelaesr ot etme ouy,_ Xylo.” He offered his hand, and the insect-man took it.

“What did he say?” Branwen asked.

“Well, I told him my name is Xylo, and asked him if he speaks our language. He said no, but his name is Jahi.”

“How well do you know his tongue?” the Minotaur asked.

“Not well at all, I’m afraid,” Xylo admitted. “Really just enough for introductions and where’s the bathroom.”

Jahi motioned to Branwen and the Minotaur. “ _Atwh aer ryuo sname_?” he asked.

“He asked for your names,” Xylo interpreted. “I think. Either that, or he wants to cook you a traditional chicken stew from his homeland. Probably the name thing.”

“Branwen,” said Branwen, indicating herself broadly. “ _Bran-wen_.”

“Branwen,” Jahi repeated, bowing his head, pressing his hands together as if praying.

“I’m Hathora,” said the Minotaur. “And I don’t like nicknames.”

 “Hathora And-I-don’t-like-nicknames,” Jahi copied, and bowed his head to her as well. “ _Peluasre ot emet oyu owt, sa ewll. I olny hiws I colud ocnevser thiw yuo wto eomr ricdltye. Laas, I'm uesr I lwil leran ni ude etim._ ”

“Gods above and below,” Xylo swore, “I’m so sorry that your poor mother had to go through that.” Jahi just shook his head and smiled patiently.

Hathora stood, drawing herself up to her full height, horns nearly brushing the ceiling. “Did anyone else notice that the four of us are all here for the same reason?”

Of course Branwen knew. But she held her breath, hoping against hope that realization would never come to the other three.

“I – alright, alright,” Xylo blurted, standing up, too. “I gotta get this off my chest. My name’s Xylo, and I’m Contrary. Alright? I’m also a blarg-hearted coward. Man, you have to recognize me,” he said, turning to Jahi. “You know who I am, don’t you? You know what I did?”

Jahi didn’t speak, but sensing the tone of the conversation, he raised an arm, and pantomimed stabbing something with a knife. Then he made a gesture as if he was receiving something. Then he pointed to Xylo.

“Yeah, you know,” Xylo said, running a hand over his face. “You shouldn’t be in here. You _know_ you shouldn’t be in here. He’s not Contrary, he’s not even _from_ here. _I_ killed that fat lard-slurping magistrate, and I lost my head. I framed this guy. This guy right here. He should be up there still,” he said, throwing his arms up, and pointing skyward, back up the shaft. “You could be at home making that traditional chicken stew right now, helping your mother get her life back together! She needs you, guy!”

Jahi got up from the floor and placed a gentle hand on Xylo’s shoulder. His face expressed an unearthly combination of pity and forgiveness. “ _Ew ancont og bkca, ym rdinef. I cntnao dohl oyu ctuancaoelb fro shti, rfo I od nto nwko twah teh Odsg ulwdo hvea pedlann ofr em fi I ahd eben in uoyr lcpae._ ” Jahi’s voice was just as communicative as his face. His words were gentle, steady, and reassuring.

“Don’t _do_ that,” Xylo moaned, brushing Jahi’s hand off his shoulder. “Don’t do that mythical divine forgiveness blarg. I don’t deserve it.”

Jahi reached out to touch Xylo’s arm lightly, drawing him back in. “ _Ew lal edsevre fegsivenors, ubt itfsr tums cmoe ccaepctnae. Ew noyl evha os muhc cnorotl ovre oru htaps ni fiel. Teh pyhap nam askme iwse cosihce hnwe eh acn, utb eh umst laos capcte whta eht Gsod ahve palnend fro ihm._ ”

“It really seems like he’s not mad at you,” Branwen said. “And that’s not a bad thing. If we’re gonna be chained together for Gods knows how long, might as well be with people we don’t hate, right?”

“That _would_ be convenient,” Hathora snorted.

Branwen rounded on her. “Oh, I’m sorry, does the person who _actually_ committed a crime want to put her two coins in?”

Hathora stamped one of her hooves in frustration. “And since when is thought a crime?” she retorted.

“Ever since those thoughts make you murder Royal Guardsmen and bury their corpses in your garden,” Branwen snapped. “I read the full police report. You were originally just under arrest for tax evasion, but remember when we were arresting you, you spilled the beans about what you were doing on your farm. We had men go back and dig up your fields and we found the dead guardsmen you were talking about. You’re guilty of multiple homicides, Eastern Goddess,” she said mockingly.

“Wait, _you’re_ Eastern Goddess?” Xylo exclaimed. “ _The_ Eastern Goddess?”

Hathora nodded, crossing her arms over her bare torso. “Suppose there’s no harm in letting people know,” she said. “Yes, I’m code-name Eastern Goddess. How do you know that name, green man? Are you a snoop of some kind?”

“I’m Viridescent Imago!” he shouted. “I never met you in person, but you were working on the supply lines project with me, right? We exchanged letters a few times a month!”

Hathora snapped her fingers in realization. “Yes, I remember writing you. You’re that little inventor from the city. I never _did_ figure out how to pronounce your name.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Xylo shrugged. “I’m just glad to finally meet you. I really admire your work – they say that all the communiques that come from the country go through you, is that right?”

“More or less,” Hathora replied, smiling with self-satisfaction. “And on top of that, I run the farm and raise two children. Or, rather, I _ran_ a farm and _raised_ two children.” She glared at Branwen. “Don’t think I didn’t recognize you the moment I saw you, orange-mane.”

“What is it with you and color nicknames?” Xylo asked aside.

“Doesn’t your code-name mean ‘green bug?’ How creative,” Hathora commented.

“I thought you said you didn’t know what it meant,” Xylo responded.

“I know what it _means_ , I’m not illiterate,” Hathora retorted.

Jahi pointed to Branwen and said, “ _Wyh od yuo rneset_ Branwen? _Ew've noly ebne heer a efw mnsitue_ ,” and his inflection indicated that it was a question.

“And that’s another thing,” Branwen growled. “I remember that night, I saved your kids from burning to death. And all you did was glare daggers at me. No thanks, no – I don’t know, no sigh of relief, nothing! I got thrown in here because I disobeyed my orders, lady.”

Hathora snorted again. “No, you stood by and watched your captain destroy my home!”

“That’s what happens when you break the law!”

“No, that’s what happens when the government is so corrupt that it views all property as its own! And don’t even _pretend_ that if I were human, things wouldn’t have turned out differently. Per the same amount of arrests, Minotaurs and insect-people are convicted four times as often as humans for the same crimes.”

“What does that have to do with _any_ of this?!” Branwen shouted, throwing her hands up. “Why are we talking about racial profiling while we’re naked and chained together in a dungeon in a mountain?!”

“Because it’s inherent in the system!” Hathora bellowed.

“ _Look around!_ ” Branwen hollered. “Do you _see_ a system down here?!”

“Yes, I do!” Hathora boomed, her cold tenor filling up the entire chamber. “It’s got orange hair and snaggle teeth and it’s standing right in front of me!”

Branwen let loose a strangled scream of exasperation and pounded the wall with her fists. “Deep breaths, Bran. Deep breaths,” she meditated, and took a dozen, audible, deep gulps of air before turning to face Hathora again. “Okay. First off, I don’t have snaggle teeth. They just look that way because the lighting is bad.”

“Agree to disagree,” Hathora interjected.

“Now wait a minute!” Branwen said, raising her fists like she was preparing for a scuffle.

Jahi quickly stepped between them, and gently lowered Branwen’s fists. He shook his head, his expression soft but commanding. Branwen obeyed his unspoken order.

“What I’m trying to say is,” Branwen continued, “I guess that – I’m sorry. I am, really, I am! If I could go back and do it again, I would stop Captain Tristram from ruining your house. Now that I think about it – we took away everything. Your kids – they’re still out there, and now they have no home to go back to. And if we ever get out of here, you’ll have to rebuild. I can’t imagine how hard that must be.”

“So you’re trying to convince me that you’re one of the good ones, then?” Hathora said, quirking an eyebrow.

Branwen huffed. “I think so. I mean, I _hope_ so. I’ve never really dealt with the Contra before, I’m usually just in the city. Ninety percent of the time I can see the Tall Tower from wherever I’m on patrol. I guess didn’t realize that things were so different for the Contra, that justice wasn’t – wasn’t there, wasn’t impartial – and I know that ignorance is no excuse. Not when there are alternative, newer schools of thought, other than the traditional Imperial-Divine structure.”

“You’re right there,” Hathora added. “We understand that the spread of new ideas is slow and, sometimes illegal, but if you want to claim that you’re the so-called good cop, you need to make a lot of changes, and you have a lot to learn.”

“Why do you think I’m here?” Branwen shrugged. “I thought they were hazing me. The other guardsmen, I mean. Because I’m a girl. But I realized it wasn’t a joke – too late, probably. They took my Reds. I’m not a guard anymore.”

“So if you’re not the good cop, then who are you?” Hathora asked.

“I’m not sure,” Branwen replied, casting her eyes around the room for help that wasn’t there. “Right now I’m a naked convict chained to three other naked convicts.”

“If I may,” Xylo interjected, “I don’t think the four of us are technically criminals anymore.”

“How’s that?” Branwen asked.

“Well,” Xylo continued, “this mountain was designed as an impenetrable fortress, right? They say you have a _chance_ of survival, but nobody ever makes it. You remember what they said before they pushed us down here? _All our crimes have been absolved_. Thing is, they can do that no sweat as many times as they want, seeing as we’re most likely going to die in here. But if we get out, we’ll be free. All of us.”

“Captain Tristram said they put people in here to be forgotten,” Branwen mused. “He said I didn’t exist anymore.”

“Right, _you_ don’t,” Xylo said. “Not as you are now. The Branwen with a criminal record is gone. Once we get to the bottom of the mountain, we’ll be new people. _Innocent_ people. _Free_ people.”

“As if they’ll let us get away with survival,” Hathora scoffed. “You and I, Imago, are naturally very conspicuous characters, don’t you think? Tracking us down would be easy. They’d make us disappear _permanently_ if they ever caught us.”

“They wouldn’t,” Branwen insisted. “Captain Tristram said it himself, the minute he dropped us down that hole. We’re forgiven. He’ll abide by his word.”

“You still trust him?” Hathora asked. “After everything he’s put you through?”

“Well, he follows the rules,” Branwen said. “I can say that at least.”

There were a few moments of bated silence before Hathora spoke again. “So can we at least agree that we’re going to try and get to the bottom of this – dungeon-maze thing?”

“We have to,” Xylo replied. “I’m not gonna sit here and starve.”

“Does he understand?” Branwen asked Xylo, nodding her head at Jahi.

Jahi nodded without needing further translation. “Go,” he said, pointing to the door at the far end of the chamber. “All go,” he added. “All.”

“I heard there are monsters in here,” Xylo breathed, shifting his weight nervously from his left foot to his right. “How are we gonna fight? We’re all blarging naked, and we don’t have any weapons, right? Nobody managed to hide a shank up their butt, did they?”

Hathora rolled her eyes. “Normally I’d turn my nose up – but, given the circumstances, I wouldn’t mind using, er, _improvised_ weaponry.”

“I have combat training,” Branwen chimed in. “I can fistfight just as well as any of the Royal Guardsmen.”

Hathora snorted. “Like the ones that came to arrest me? How many of you did it take, twenty? And you had to take me at night, and by surprise?”

“How are you this _smug_?” Branwen whined, crossing her arms again tightly against her bare skin. “Can we at least agree that we’re the best at combat out of us four?”

“I’d say so,” Xylo concurred. “You know, come to think of it, I was always really good at darts. Maybe we can find some sharp things I could throw? Or something? At the monsters?”

Jahi cleared his throat, and motioned for the party to step aside, leaving a clear path down the middle of the small chamber. He took a deliberate breath, broadened his stance, and seemed to push fire from his hands. It only traveled about ten feet, but it was a scorching hot and voluminous flame.

“So you’re a sorcerer,” Hathora noted. “So you and Xylo bring up the rear, then.”

“And we’re going to have to figure out some sort of marching formation,” Branwen continued. “Seeing as we’re chained together by the ankles, we’re gonna have to learn to watch where we step. _Especially_ if there’s a monster after us.”

“Alright, let’s try it out,” Hathora said. “On my mark, when I say _left_ , move your left foot forward, everyone. And _right_ , move your right. Ready? _Left_.”

Hathora and Branwen stepped forward with their left feet, but in different directions, and the chain tugged between them, throwing Branwen off balance. Xylo took a tentative step with his right foot, and Jahi didn’t move at all, so the chain between them pulled, too. Branwen waved her arms, trying to keep herself from falling flat on her face. Hathora lowed in frustration, stamping her hoof, and accidentally tugged Jahi forward about a foot into Branwen, knocking her over.

“Oh craps, that was my _right_ foot. Sorry! My bad!”


End file.
